The palace gates loomed like teeth, and Seraine stepped forward as if into a monster's open mouth.
The gold-trimmed carriage halted. A pair of masked guards flanked her before the door even creaked open. She didn't tremble. She didn't blink. Not because she wasn't afraid—but because fear was too precious to show.
Inside her chest, the old chain her mother had given her burned against her skin like it remembered the fire that birthed it.
"Stand tall," whispered the maid beside her. The only one who dared whisper at all. The others only stared. Like they were waiting for her to break. Or hoping she would.
She descended the steps in silken red, each footstep measured. Behind her, the carriage that had carried her like a corpse creaked and wheeled back toward the gates. There was no retreat.
There never had been.
"That's the new one?" someone murmured beyond the marble columns. "She looks... alive."
"She won't stay that way long," another snorted.
It was tradition now. Every few years, the Ruthless King took a new bride. No one knew what happened to the last one. Or the ones before her. The tower swallowed them. And the palace never spoke.
A courtier approached with a scroll in hand, her eyes painted black, her mouth sharp as a quill. "Lady Seraine Amoréil, of the House Once-Glorious," she declared. "By decree, and in the name of peace, you are offered to His Majesty as bride. You will obey the rites. You will enter the chamber. You will not speak unless spoken to."
Seraine bowed. Deep enough to be proper. Not deep enough to surrender.
Then he came.
The man whose hands had destroyed her past, now dressed in the robes of her future.
Rhaenor Dravaryn.
Eyes like verdant fire. Hair like night. A face carved by wrath and war. The king walked past her like she was furniture, then stopped just short of the steps.
He didn't look at her.
"Prepare her," he said.
Not to her. To the air. To the shadows.
That was when the dark maid stepped forward. She was older than the others, skin the color of twilight, eyes lined with secrets. She didn't bow. She didn't smile.
"Come," the woman said. "The ritual waits."
A rustle of silks. Seraine turned, heels clicking. And she followed.
Behind her, whispers followed like dust.
"She smiled. Did you see it?"
"Another mad one."
"The last one screamed. This one smiles."
The halls grew colder the deeper they went. Marble gave way to stone. Silk gave way to chains. Torches flickered with a crimson glow.
When they reached the chamber, the maid turned. She leaned close. "Whatever you do," she said softly, "don't let them see your softness. He likes breaking soft things."
The doors creaked open.
The ritual began.
And somewhere above them, the king watched.